Demon Thief by Darren Shan Read Free Book Online

quicker, the edges closing in. It’s about to collapse, break apart, become fragmented patches of light again.
    Fresh screams as parents find the remains of their children. A chorus of wails, growing by the second, becoming a wall of anguished sound. Some kids are still running. They don’t know it’s finished, that the monster’s gone, that the last victim was Art.
    I stumble towards the flickering window, wanting to believe there’s hope, that the Indian woman will reappear with Art in her arms. Art can’t be gone forever. I can’t have lost him. He’s my brother.
    I spot the marbles on the ground by the window. I pick them up, study their orange centers, then put them in my left pants pocket. I’m numb. Hardly aware of the throbbing pain in my broken arm.
    I think about Mom and Dad, how they’ll react when they return to find Paskinston in mourning, Art abducted. Mom’s last words to me echo inside my skull — “Look after your brother.” Dad calling me the best brother in the world, saying I’d take better care of Art than they could.
    But I didn’t. I let the demon take him.
    Staring into the heart of the grey light. I tune out the screams. Focus on the window. A voice whispers to me, a voice I haven’t heard for a year. Tells me what I must do. What it suggests is crazy. I should dismiss it immediately. But I can’t.
    The window is closing. Any second now, it’ll be gone. But if I step forward before it closes . . . chase after the demon . . . perhaps I can find Art, rescue him, bring him back home.
    Madness. Art’s probably dead already, slaughtered by the demon as soon as it escaped. Besides, I don’t know what lies on the other side of the window. Most likely more monsters like the one that took Art. I’ll almost certainly be killed. Even if I’m not, there’ll be no way back once the window breaks up. Mom and Dad will lose both their children. Double the sorrow. I should forget about it. Ignore the voice and its suicidal suggestion.
    But I can’t. Because they’ll blame me. They won’t want to, but the accusation will be there, in their eyes. A look that says, “You didn’t take care of him. He was your brother. You didn’t protect him. You let him go. It’s your fault.”
    The edges of the window bend inward. The grey light sputters. There’s no more time. I have to decide.
    I start to look back, wanting the window to close before I can act, to cheat myself of the chance to go after Art. But as my head turns, my feet move forward. Instinct makes me step through the grey light of the window — into the realm of the murderous demon.

WALKING ON WATER
    T HE greyness lasts a few seconds. Like a mist around me, except there’s no damp or cool sensation. Then it parts and I find myself surrounded by trees. A forest of crooked, twisted, pitiful trees.
    They’re howling.
    At first I think something else is making the horrible noise, like a mix of car brakes squealing and somebody sawing through metal. My brain tells me there are workmen nearby, or a weird animal. But then I see the trees moving, swaying weakly. There are holes in their dark, mottled bark. And the howls are coming from the holes. No question about it.
    I try applying logic to the situation, like Mr. Spock. The howls must be the wind blowing through the holes. Except there isn’t any wind. And I know — I
know
— that the trees are making the noise themselves. They’re alive. In pain. Howling with anger, hatred — and hunger.
    I look for the window but there’s nothing. Either you can’t see it from this side or it broke up into pieces while I was staring at the trees.
    I take a hesitant step forward. There’s a soft splashing sound. I look down. See water everywhere underfoot, covering the ground. I look again at the trees. I can’t see any roots. They’re all below the waterline.
    I crouch, trying to see how deep the water is. But it’s murky and muddy, and the trees block out most of the light. I stick a finger